“In the Gospel of John, Christ utters a remark that at first glance seems out of character. He asks his beloved mother: ‘Woman, why do you involve me? You know it’s not my time!’ Why would Jesus say that?”
The question hung in the air.
“Was it because with Christ’s gift of foresight, he knows the brutal manner in which his human life will end? Perhaps the mortal part of Jesus is afraid.” said Simon.
Paul nodded.
“So, Jesus wants to put off his fate for a bit longer, but that’s not God’s plan. Instead, Christ pushes aside selfish desires and performs his first miracle, initiating a ministry that will transform the world. The miracle at Cana is the moment when Jesus accepts his destiny.”
“How is that relevant?”
“We too have a destiny. We can embrace our fate with courage or we can flee from it in terror. Either way, inexorably, destiny will find us.”
Paul looked at his former boss.
DeMaj sighed. “I know. I know. I’ve always been a skeptical empiricist. Now I’m preaching. Recent events have caused me to, shall we say, reconsider. I’m sure of one thing: Sinan believes in destiny. If he passes tonight, he’ll die content. He kept his vow.”
“What vow?” Ava asked.
“Years ago, he swore to defeat his blood enemy and avenge his child’s death.”
She gasped. “Ahmed killed his child?”
“Sinan’s teenage son was a heroin addict. In 1998 he injected a hot dose. The sheik was his dealer.”
Tears pooled in Ava’s eyes. Paul took her hand. Then he raised his glass. “To Sinan: His friend is my friend, his enemy is my enemy.”
The master rose before the sun. He stood in the dark room and stretched. This would be a day to be remembered. Years of planning and millions invested would finally bear fruit. Today’s bold action would be the capstone to the decades-long strategy of tension he’d helped orchestrate. By tonight, his ultimate goal and birthright would be within reach. Father would be proud!
Though he’d never actually served in the armed forces, the master dressed in a crisp military uniform. He left his private chambers and went out to mingle with the troops. He saw excitement and anticipation written on their young faces. Many suspected the Gruppo’s fabled Plan of Rebirth would begin today, although none knew exactly what that entailed. Smiling, he shook hands with some officers and saluted others. So many fierce patriots! So many beautiful martyrs!
A bit later, Lieutenant Barakah returned. Simon offered him brandy, but the devout Muslim took only water. After he’d quenched his thirst, Ava asked, “What news?”
The Egyptian rubbed his face, visibly exhausted. “Mellania doesn’t know anything.”
“And Tomás?” Simon asked icily. “Did she kill him?”
“No. She slipped GHB into his drink. Your man’s been unconscious for hours, but he’ll recover.”
“What will happen to her?”
Barakah glanced at DeMaj. “With your permission, sir, I’ll turn her over to the carabinieri. She’ll be charged with assault, conspiracy to murder, and violating parole.”
Simon nodded. “Did she say anything about the master?”
“No. She’s never met or even spoken to him. Almost nobody has, except Ahmed. That’s a major source of the master’s power: He’s invisible. My mission was to infiltrate the organization, ascertain his whereabouts, and investigate something he called the Plan of Rebirth. Unfortunately—”
Paul interrupted. “Hold on. Just who, or what, is the master?”
“We’re not sure,” Barakah answered. “Our prime suspect is a shadowy figure some call Don VeMeli, but he’s better known as La Belva.
“Who?”
Simon stood up. “I have a thorough file.” He walked to his desk and tapped keys on his computer until a page emerged from the printer. Ava took it.
“‘Salvatore T. VeMeli, a.k.a. La Belva, born November 16, 1953. Sardinian. A violent drug lord who rose to great prominence in the 1990s, VeMeli is alleged to have killed at least thirty people by his own hand and ordered the deaths of several hundred…
“‘As a teenager, VeMeli began committing murder for hire. After killing a popular athlete, he was forced into hiding. When VeMeli was arrested and tried for that murder, he manufactured an acquittal by intimidating the jurors and witnesses. Later, he worked in heroin refining and export. An efficient, ruthless criminal, he became a major player in narcotics. The profits were vast, and young VeMeli grew tremendously rich.
“‘In 1976, an omen caused La Belva to believe himself destined for greater things, and he began plotting war against his rivals. Throughout the 1980s, he expanded his drug-trafficking network into South America, Greece, and Asia. He invested millions of drug profits in international banks and newspapers. He affiliated himself with Propaganda Due, a right-wing political cabal. In the 1990s, VeMeli’s faction waged a campaign for underworld control. At that time, most dons protected themselves with bribes rather than violence. They were highly visible in their communities, rubbing shoulders with numerous politicians. Don VeMeli’s strategy relied on the “law of misdirection.” He remained hidden and was rarely seen, even by fellow Mafiosi. He orchestrated the murders of high-profile law-enforcement officials on other mobsters’ turf. Whenever a policeman or a well-known judge was killed, more criminals were blamed. In January 1993, he framed a rival for the car-bomb assassination of two respected prosecutors. This act caused widespread condemnation and led to a major anti-Mafia crackdown, resulting in the capture and imprisonment of La Belva’s primary competitors. Consequently, Don VeMeli seized control. In 1994, he entered the political arena. He’s rumored to have bankrolled the extremist Gruppo Garibaldi—’”
Paul interrupted. “Okay, he’s evil and dangerous, but is he the Antichrist?”
Barakah finished his water. “Possibly.” He nodded to Simon. “Obviously, Mr. DeMaj suspects it. I believe it, and my organization has amassed significant evidence that Don VeMeli himself agrees, but could I prove it?” He shrugged.
Ava shook her head. “That’s immaterial. Stay focused on the facts. He’s a terrorist, he has no scruples about committing mass murder, and he’s been plotting a major attack for years.”
Paul had a brainstorm. “Hey! If he thinks he’s the Antichrist, he’d want to attack the Church, right? The cardinals are gathered in Rome. They’re a perfect target!”
“That was our initial assumption too,” Barakah said. “When Benedict announced his resignation, we anticipated that Don VeMeli would be tempted to move against the Vatican. My superiors communicated with the Swiss Guard. Security for the conclave will be the finest on earth. I don’t believe an attack there will succeed.”
Paul smiled with satisfaction until he saw Ava’s face.
“What?” he asked. “What did I get wrong?”
Before she could answer, Simon spoke. “Ms. Fischer picked up on something in the dossier: the law of misdirection. Our foe’s modus operandi is to attack from unexpected directions. Hence, Rome is too obvious. When you wage asymmetrical warfare…”
Something in the way Simon talked reminded Ava of her father. She flashed back to a sunny afternoon in Washington when he’d spent hours helping his precocious five-year-old daughter memorize the periodic table. At one point she erupted in frustration, insisting that the elements should be organized differently. Patiently, Dr. Fischer explained the various considerations and historical precedents. He’d spoken with clarity and care, just as Simon was doing now.
“… and in the current, hypervigilant atmosphere, smuggling a bomb into Vatican City would be virtually impossible.”